


Do you come from a land down under?

by sweaters_in_the_summer



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, POV Alternating, brief mention of Australia, luggage mishap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:56:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28987449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweaters_in_the_summer/pseuds/sweaters_in_the_summer
Summary: The man was talking to an older woman, and was facing away from the baggage carousel when David’s eye caught the familiar shade of purple moving past him. As he lunged towards the baggage claim, he heard the man say something with a very distinct Australian accent.Or, don’t assume you have the only purple suitcase at baggage claim.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 18
Kudos: 99





	Do you come from a land down under?

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of this story comes from my own travel experiences (back from the good old days when we could still go places) but there’s been a lot of hand-waving around passport control and customs and the actual airports and stuff like that. I half-heartedly researched flights from Sydney-LAX-Toronto but I mean let’s not look too closely, mmkay?

David Rose had just spent a nice week in Los Angeles. Really nice. It wasn’t the weather, which was undoubtedly pleasant, but similar enough to Schitt’s Creek’s temperate microclimate to make it unremarkable. 

The nice part was spending a surprisingly drama-free week with his family. His mom was just busy enough filming to keep her out of his and Alexis’s hair, but not so busy that they couldn’t spend quality time together. His part-time employees Thea and Delphine were taking care of his store, Rose Apothecary, in his absence. He had complete trust in them, so he wasn’t even stressed out worrying about that. 

His dad had scheduled a few RMG meetings with him and Alexis about motel supplies and public relations respectively, which left him plenty of time to scope out some really great upscale consignment stores. (And people seemed to want to get rid of designer sweaters at an alarming rate here, much to his delight.)

So no big fights, minimal snarking, and time with his family all added up to a pretty great week. The one blot on his joy was the obnoxiously purple suitcase he’d had to borrow from Jocelyn. The suitcase he had been planning to bring seemed to be housing a family of silverfish so until he could get them evicted, ugh, no.

He refused to put a tag on this monstrosity. He did not want his name anywhere near it. But he could admit in a more generous moment that it was quite roomy and had little dividers and pockets to organize everything. Anyway, he’d been traveling for years and years and hadn’t permanently lost a bag yet. He was willing to risk it for this one trip.

He crossed his fingers as he dropped the bag with the ticket agent, not really worrying that he wouldn’t see it on the other end, but not _not_ worrying just a little either.

+++

Patrick Brewer was exhausted. 

When his boss at the management consulting firm that he worked for told him he was going to Australia for a conference, he was initially thrilled. He would get to see so many things he wouldn’t get to see otherwise, and on the company’s dime. Even the fact that he slept poorly on airplanes did little to quench his excitement about visiting a new continent. He had hoped his company would spring for the upgraded seats, but he knew that was unlikely. 

So he was in economy for the entire flight. He was somehow able to sleep for an hour or so on the leg between Los Angeles and Sydney, but crashed hard when he arrived at his hotel.

Once he was somewhat rested, his trip was great. He’d built in some personal time at the beginning of it, knowing he’d need time to catch up on his sleep and recover from the jet lag (and wonder why he had to go through Tuesday _again_.) He happily roamed the city on foot, wandering along the harbour, taking in the sights, and buying some souvenirs for himself and his parents.

And the conference was great, right up his alley. His brain felt like he'd pointed a firehose of information at it over the past few days, so he was looking forward to the pub crawl that was scheduled for the last evening. He took it easy, but he hoped maybe a _little_ bit of a hangover would make him crash on the plane.

+++

Fourteen hours. Fourteen hours was the length of the flight between Sydney and Los Angeles, and fourteen hours was how long he’d been trying to fall asleep without success. He was really regretting the pints of beer from the prior night (? day? where did Tuesday go? how had he had two Tuesdays last time and none this time? where had it gone? thinking about it made his head hurt even more) as he watched movie after movie on the flight. It’s not like there was anything else to do, so he watched all seventy-five of the Fast and Furious movies on offer. 

Finally he found himself shuffling off the plane through customs and into the terminal at LAX. He felt like he was moving underwater. How dare all these other people at the airport look so chipper! It was early morning in Los Angeles, but time had no meaning anymore. All he wanted was to sleep. But no. He still had another five hour flight to go. Thank god this wasn’t a long layover.

+++

David gazed longingly at the lie-flat seats in first class as he made his way to his seat (exit row, thank god.) Sure, it was only a five hour flight, and a daytime flight at that, but a nap was never a bad idea. Alas, those first class days were long past, and this way, he could use his time to catch up on the movies he never had time to see in the theater. He reasoned he could probably fit two in on this flight, if he started it right away. David was proud of himself for finding a silver lining in economy class hell.

Once he was comfortably ensconced in the window seat of the exit row, David put on his noise-cancelling headphones, a beanie, and a face mask (airplane germs could fuck off) and put the tray table down so he could comfortably scroll through the options. He had wrapped an alpaca throw from his store around himself as he browsed through the films available. He had forgotten his plan to watch something new as soon as he saw that _13 Going on 30_ was an option. A classic!

+++

Blearily, Patrick made his way down the aisle, barely able to keep his eyes open but determined to pretend he was fine. Fake it til you make it. He laughed a bit to himself, considering that’s pretty much what he’d been doing with his life up until he and Rachel had broken up a month before. 

He glanced at the exit row longingly, wishing he had that window seat and all that leg room, but he hadn’t had the physical or emotional energy to stand in line at the ticket desk to beg for one of the seats. 

He found his seat, and of course it was a middle seat. Of _course_ it was.

An hour into the flight, David was snuggled in his exit row seat, blanket around his shoulders and Jennifer Garner on his screen, but Patrick was in hell. He was sitting between an older woman and a large, burly man. He wanted to sleep _so badly_. He craved it more than anything he ever had in his entire life. But every time he would start to doze off, his head would bob forward, and he’d jerk awake. Over and over and over again.

Finally he decided he just needed to try to stay awake, since he couldn’t get comfortable enough to sleep. But he had forgotten to grab his headphones out of his bag which was now cozily stuffed in the overhead bin, and he couldn’t reach them without disturbing his neighbor, who was snoozing. (Jerk!) So he couldn’t even watch a movie. Forget reading a book on his phone. His eyes just blurred at the screen and the words swam as he tried to focus. 

So he sat. And stewed. And probably hallucinated. He wanted the flight attendant to take pity on him and bring him a pillow and get his headphones and feel sorry for him and pet his head. It really would make him feel better. He wanted his mom. 

Finally, finally, finally, the interminable flight was over. The plane approached the Toronto airport. And after another eleventy-million hours of taxiing and waiting he was finally walking off the airplane. Patrick felt slightly more awake, now that the end of his journey was in sight. He stopped in the men’s room and splashed cold water on his face before heading towards baggage claim.

So close!

+++

David leaned against a marble-ish column as he waited for the baggage carousel to start up. He’d never tell anyone this, but for once he was grateful that his suitcase was obnoxiously purple. Not that he had traveled commercial much in his old life, but he’d flown enough since then to realize that there was no such thing as a unique black suitcase.

He stared at the passengers around him, idly wondering what had brought them to Toronto. Were they arriving or coming home? He felt illogically smug to be arriving at home and not just here to visit, even though he didn’t exactly live in a big city. His eye snagged on a man standing about ten feet away. His navy sweater was rumpled and his hair was a mess. He had bags under his eyes - well, David was above making a pun about suitcases here, even though it would have been very fitting. The point was, the guy looked exhausted. David wondered if he’d come from further than Los Angeles. David _hoped_ he’d come from further than Los Angeles. There was no excuse to be that unkempt after a relatively short flight. Maybe he was on something. Who knew. David was in no position to judge. 

The man was talking to an older woman, and was facing away from the baggage carousel when David’s eye caught the familiar shade of purple moving past him. As he lunged towards the baggage claim, he heard the man say something with a very distinct Australian accent. Ah. That explains that, David thought to himself as he strode to the door to find his ride home. Poor guy had been traveling for _ages_.

+++

Stevie’s car idled in a cloud of blue smoke as she waited for David in the “no stopping” zone. She kept glancing around nervously, expecting to be asked by airport police to move along. She didn’t want to have to pay for parking. Fortunately, David came out after just a moment, pulling the hideous suitcase behind him as he made a beeline for his friend’s car. 

“Wow, David. That’s quite a suitcase.” Stevie looked from the garish suitcase to David as she popped the trunk and he hefted it into place. “I like this for you.”

David rolled his eyes. “It’s Jocelyn’s. Don’t ask.” 

“Ah. That makes more sense. Now get in the car.” The car stuttered away from the curb as the Australian man walked out of the airport, dragging a familiar suitcase behind him.

+++

Patrick had almost wept when he saw his bag trundling along the carousel. _Of course_ it was the last bag to come out. He was nearly alone in the baggage area for his flight by that point, though the airport was bustling. He laughed weakly to himself as he remembered chatting with one of his seatmates when he saw her waiting for her luggage. For no good reason whatsoever, he decided to pretend to be Australian. After a week "down under", he couldn’t help thinking to himself in an Australian accent. He was just _that_ tired.

But now he had his bag! And for once, luck was on his side because when he walked outside, he could see through a cloud of blue smoke that the shuttle to Elm Glen was there. He gave the driver his bag and sunk into a seat by a window. He promptly fell into a deep sleep with his head leaning on the glass. 

+++

David and Stevie spent the two hours of the drive back to Schitt’s Creek catching up on everything - his trip, her new apartment, their nonexistent love lives, and their thriving professional lives. He was happy to have this time with her, laughing and eating the candy and snacks she’d thoughtfully (and uncharacteristically) provided. 

When she pulled up to his apartment building, he slyly mentioned that he had some weed gummies in his freezer. Stevie didn’t need any convincing, so she opened the trunk for him and headed towards the lobby door while he got his bag out. Fortunately, he was on the first floor of the building, so it was only a matter of a few minutes before they were inside and relaxing. He wanted to show Stevie his new sweaters (in case she wanted to borrow any, he was a _very_ generous friend and he owed her for the ride home) but it could wait. No rush. 

+++

Patrick woke with a start. The late afternoon sun was in his eyes as he struggled to open them against the bright light. But they also felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, so it was easier just to keep them closed. 

“Sir?” The driver of the shuttle gently shook Patrick’s shoulder. “We’ve arrived at your destination.” 

Patrick turned his head towards the voice and squinted at the man. After a few beats his brain caught up. “Oh!” He popped up, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling of the van. Heart racing and feeling disoriented, he disembarked from the vehicle as the driver was pulling his bright purple suitcase out of the back. Patrick gave a jaw-cracking yawn and thanked him, then turned towards the Airbnb he was living in temporarily.

He was lucky to have a job where he could work remotely. He’d settled on Elm Glen after he and Rachel had broken up. It wasn’t too far away from the city (and a big airport, because he did enjoy traveling, his sleep issues notwithstanding) but was far enough away that he could see the stars. There were a lot of hiking trails nearby, and the town was big enough to have a recreational baseball league. It was ideal, really, though at times like this he wouldn’t have minded something a bit closer to the city. He just needed to find an apartment, but he wasn’t in any rush.

He got his luggage up the three steps to the front door, and dumped it right inside. All he wanted was a shower and then bed. He could eat tomorrow. Sleep. Just sleep.

+++

Stevie had insisted that David order crappy Chinese for dinner, and, okay, twist his arm. While they waited for the food to arrive, he pulled his suitcase into the living room and set it on its back so he could open it and show Stevie his new purchases.

As he started to work the zipper open, he saw a flash of blue peek out. Strange, he thought. He wondered if his suitcase had gotten searched by airport security and could feel himself becoming indignant at the invasion of privacy. The thought of their grubby paws over his gorgeous knits...but he didn’t have any blue knits. Or blue anything. Once the suitcase was fully open, it became clear this was a much bigger problem than someone manhandling his clothing (not that manhandling was _always_ a problem, but focus, David.)

This was not his suitcase.

Thank god he had only brought travel-sized versions of his skincare regimen, so he would at least still look dewy as he got to the bottom of this debacle. But then the doorbell rang, and the food arrived, and cramming shrimp toast into his face became his top priority.

+++

Patrick was still wearing jeans and the same smelly blue sweater he’d had on for what felt like the previous week. (How was it only Wednesday? Like time had any meaning anymore anyway.) So much for that shower last night. Apparently, he’d sat on his bed to take off his shoes and hadn’t made it any further. At least he hadn’t had an oopsie-daisy because he _really_ had to pee. 

He felt like a new man after his shower and a sorely-needed tooth brushing. His clothes were still in a pile on the bathroom floor, but he’d deal with those later. He really just wanted to burn them. 

Towel around his waist, Patrick walked out of his room and to the front door where his suitcase sat from the evening before. He rolled it into his bedroom, and after putting a towel down, set the case on top of it and unzipped it.

Hmm.

The only thing he could see was fuzz. Soft fuzz. Very odd. He rubbed his eyes in case they were blurry from jet lag. Nope. Still fuzzy. He tentatively reached a hand out to feel the fuzz. Yep. Definitely fuzzy. Gently lifting it out of the suitcase, it revealed itself to be a sweater. Patrick looked at the contents of the suitcase underneath. He let out an uncharacteristic curse. 

This was not his suitcase.

+++

David woke up the next morning eager to get back to his beloved store and even more eager to wear one of his new (to him) sweaters.

Fuck. The suitcase. 

Stretching and yawning, he brewed a cup of coffee and doctored it up to his liking while he considered his options. Would it be a gross invasion of privacy to look through it? Not because he was curious (of course he was, he was human, after all) but to hopefully find a clue as to who owned it. There was no luggage tag on it, not even the one the airline put on it, so he really didn’t think he had a choice. What could the airline do, after all? 

So he sat on his sofa with his coffee and stared at the suitcase like it contained a bomb. (Oh god! What if it contained a bomb? Isn’t this what they were always warning people about over the loudspeaker at the airport?) But he wasn’t really that worried. Things like that didn’t happen to David Rose. (The bombs in his life were more figurative than literal.)

Gingerly, he flipped it open. Again, he only saw blue. Everything was neatly folded (so at least whoever this belonged to wasn’t a sociopath.) Blue jeans next to blue button down shirts. This person obviously had gone on a long trip because he could see five of each, and he shuddered at the thought of such wardrobe-related monotony. He knew he’d have to excavate further to get any answers, and it wasn’t long before he got one.

Underneath the top layer of clothes was a bag from a souvenir shop. SYDNEY TREASURES was printed on a partly crumpled paper bag. David immediately thought of the man at the airport with the unfortunate eye bags and the thick accent. He was wearing navy, David remembered. This must be his suitcase. _Call me Detective Rose_ , David thought, picturing himself wearing a fedora and trench coat. He shook himself from his film noir daydream and pulled the bag out and set it aside.

Below the final blue layer (at least everything matched, David thought, cringing) he found a folder that obviously had come from some business meeting. “International Boring Business Conference” (or something like that anyway, David wasn’t really paying attention) was printed across the front in bold letters. He pulled it out and was gratified to see some kind of registration form inside. 

Patrick Brewer  
5948 Monroe St  
Elm Glen, ON QH3 GT7

So he had a name and an address for the poor, unfortunately attired man. David wondered how an Australian had ended up in Elm Glen, but weirder things had happened, for sure.

He had to get to work, though, so he took a picture of the man’s name and address on his phone and headed to his shop.

David never felt as secure and happy as he did when he walked through the doors of his business. He wished it was later in the day, but his dad had convinced him that opening at nine instead of noon was a good idea, which meant he had to be there at, like, 8:55. He had at least gotten good at preparing everything for opening at the end of the previous day, and he’d trained his employees to do the same so he never had to get there at any ungodly hour like 8. Was it even light yet at 8? He preferred not to dwell on such unpleasantness.

He was grateful to see that the store was in excellent shape after his week away. He could barely even find a jar or bottle to straighten or a textile to refold. If he was honest with himself, he was slightly disappointed, but it mostly was overshadowed by the pride he had in his employees. After putting his bag in the back room, he unlocked the doors and brought the store laptop over to the counter by the register so he could look over the previous week’s sales (and Instagram.)

Not bad. Not bad at all. 

Now for the fun. He opened a new browser tab and put in “patrick brewer elm glen.” Not much came up, but he did get some hits for a “patrick brewer toronto” on LinkedIn. Yep, that was him. Puzzlingly, there was nothing about Australia in his profile. All of his schooling and work history was in Canada. Maybe he emigrated as a teenager, David reasoned. 

Then the bell over the door rang, a customer came in, and David closed the computer, not thinking about the rumpled blue man again that morning.

+++

Patrick ignored the suitcase in his bedroom as he logged into work for the day. Opening Slack, he greeted his teammates who were eager to hear about his trip. He spent most of the morning in Zoom meetings (he changed his background to a view of the Sydney Opera House, to his own amusement) but was dismayed that he couldn’t share many details of the conference once he realized he’d packed all of the materials in his checked bag, which was god knows where.

When he took a break for lunch, he decided to venture into the mysterious bag again, an identical twin of his own. He really hated that bag, but Rachel had given it to him for Christmas one year and he felt kind of sentimental towards it. Plus it was huge, so perfect for an international trip.

He carefully pulled the sweater out again and made a note of the label. Even _he_ had heard of Alexander McQueen, and he knew this was not a cheap garment. He laid it on his bed and saw that there were a few other equally soft sweaters folded neatly in tissue paper. He didn’t want to disturb the contents too much, but he was compelled to touch them. He pulled one out and unwrapped it just enough to uncover the fuzzy knit fabric. As he suspected, it was as soft as the first one he’d pulled out. He brought it to his nose and smelled it, even as he told himself he was being weird. There was a faint scent of cologne or perfume on it, and Patrick liked it. He liked it a lot. Not to wear himself, necessarily, but he felt a strange pull towards whoever’s scent this was.

He still couldn’t tell if it was a man’s sweater or a woman’s, and further investigation wasn’t giving him many clues either way. He was _not_ going to dig further down, but he did need to look for some kind of identification. He felt like he was intruding on the owner’s privacy, and rightfully so. But he would never be able to give it back if he couldn’t find more clues.

A toiletry bag was neatly tucked into a corner of the suitcase, so he gently tugged it out of place and unzipped it. A heated blush came over his face when he plucked out a small bottle of lube. Taking a deep breath, he reached in and pulled out shampoo, conditioner, and several bottles of mysterious skin potions. 

He was getting closer to finding the owner, he thought. The label on every product he pulled out said _Rose Apothecary, Schitt’s Creek_.

+++

David knew Stevie was in town for a few more days before she had her next RMG scouting trip, so he hoped she’d be able to come watch the store for a couple of hours while he took a quick trip to Elm Glen. (Well, maybe not _that_ quick. If he was going to drive the 30 minutes there to find the suitcase’s owner, he was going to stop at that amazing coffee shop that was on the way back for a treat.)

Shockingly, it didn’t take too much to convince her to help him out. (Just several bottles of wine and some of that massage oil she liked. And a wedge of Brie.) She showed up after lunch, and David took her car back to his apartment to retrieve the suitcase and head towards Elm Glen.

+++

After looking up the address for Rose Apothecary, Patrick loaded the suitcase in his car and started the trek to Schitt’s Creek. He’d only been there once for a baseball game against a team from the town (whose captain for some reason seemed to loathe him) but never to Rose Apothecary. He was tickled and slightly apprehensive when he noticed it was right across the corner from _the_ Bob’s Garage. He sure hoped he didn’t see Ronnie. 

He pulled up in front of Rose Apothecary and was struck by how pretty it was. That wasn't the kind of thing he generally thought about a store, but he couldn’t help how he felt. Something about it almost felt familiar about it. Maybe it was because he’d looked at all of those labels so closely. 

He walked into the store slowly, taking everything in. The plants in the front window, the gleaming wood floors, the soft jazz playing over the speakers, and the tables and shelves filled with products gave the whole room a warm and welcoming feel. He felt his jet lag melt away as he took in a deep breath.

Sitting behind the counter was a petite woman with long dark hair. She had a laptop open in front of her, and judging by how she was jabbing at the keys and making faces at the screen, she was either playing Minesweeper or trying to figure out a formula in a spreadsheet. It really could have gone either way, but when she crowed at the screen and slammed the computer shut, he assumed the former.

She was lovely, if a bit stony faced (guess her victory over the game or formula wasn’t that sweet after all) and her attitude seemed quite at odds with the atmosphere of the store. Patrick was shocked by how disappointed he felt that _this_ was the owner of the suitcase. He didn’t have much time to prod at that feeling. Later.

“May I help you?” she asked in a monotone, clearly willing him to say no. 

“Maybe?” Patrick tried to picture her wearing the sweater he'd pulled from the suitcase and couldn’t do it. For one thing, she’d drown in it, and for another, it didn’t really seem like her style. She was decked out in a flannel shirt open over a tank top. She seemed to be projecting a bit of a tougher look than what was indicated from the contents of the suitcase. In spite of the fact that he was definitely making some snap judgments about this woman, he felt a spark of hope in his chest. 

Hope? That was weird. 

Stevie (as the name tag indicated) continued to stare at him. “I came back from a trip yesterday and...” Patrick laughed weakly.

“You think you have my suitcase?”

Patrick couldn't understand why he felt both relieved and disappointed when he heard this. 

Stevie shook her head. “It’s not mine, it belongs to the owner of the store. But you can leave it here if you want.”

Patrick looked at the floor, considering. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I’d kind of rather trade, and get mine back at the same time.” 

Stevie narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t speak. After a few seconds of a hard stare where he was sure she was staring _into his soul_ , she retorted, “suit yourself.” She opened the laptop again and ignored Patrick. Stunned, he backed out of the store, got in his car, and headed home, back to Elm Glen.

Oooookay.

+++

David pulled up to the curb in front of the address he’d found in the suitcase. The front door was just a few feet from where he was idling, up a few steps but if someone came out there’d be nowhere to hide. Resolutely, he put the car into park, and walked up to the door before he could talk himself out of it. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door and turned his head so he could hear if anyone was coming. Nothing.

After he’d knocked a few more times and looked in vain for a doorbell, he knew he’d have no choice but to try again later. He scribbled a note on the back of a crumpled receipt from the back seat with his name and phone number and shoved it into the mailbox next to the door. He laid his hand against the door, palm flat against it as he tried to send his suitcase a message. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, feeling only a little silly.

At least he could console himself with a warm beverage and pastries from the coffee shop in Elm Grove. With a sigh and a more than passing worry about the safety of his precious clothing, he got in the car and turned it around.

+++

Patrick steered into the parking lot of the coffee shop, needing something caffeinated to get him through the day so he could avoid succumbing to jet lag. He’d never been to this one, and he hoped they had a decent selection of teas. 

He was barely looking at the tables or the people sitting at them as he walked up to the counter, but over the rich aroma of coffee, another scent tugged at him. Inexplicably, it made his face heat up, and he turned his head towards the source, like a cartoon character following his nose. His heart skipped a beat.

A striking man in a, yep, soft-looking sweater sat at a table by a window, hunched over his phone, sipping a coffee. Patrick felt himself walking over to the man’s table, seemingly on autopilot. He yanked out the chair opposite abruptly and sat down. 

+++

David looked up, startled by the interruption. His furrowed brow softened as he took in the man opposite him, but he remained silent. If he hadn’t seen the man at the airport the day before, the blue shirt and jeans would have been a dead giveaway. 

“Can I help you?” David kept his voice low so he wouldn’t spook the Antipodean across from him. 

“Um,” Patrick paused. 

“Is this about a suitcase, by any chance?”

Patrick wondered how _everyone_ knew this as he felt his jet lag wash over him again. He stood up and walked over to the counter where he ordered a shot of espresso. Forget tea, he didn’t have time for that. As he waited, he resolutely did _not_ face the tables and Sweater Man. Sweater _Man_. 

Espresso served and downed swiftly, Patrick waited for the jolt of caffeine to hit him, and when it did, he strode back to the table and sat down. Sweater Man’s eyes widened as he took in the newfound confidence. 

“Okay. Sorry. Jet lag. Yes, this is about the suitcase.” He held his hand out, hoping he could graze his fingers against the cuff of the cozy black sweater. “Patrick Brewer.”

“David Rose. You aren’t Australian.” 

Patrick chuckled. “No, but I just came from a trip there. Still dealing with the aftereffects.” 

“Like a fake accent?” David smirked. Patrick blushed. 

“I’d been awake for a really, really long time by the time I made that poor decision. I was so tired I forgot I am not good with accents.” He laughed. 

David liked that laugh. He liked it a _lot_. He thought about pretending Patrick’s suitcase wasn’t in his car, ready to be returned to its rightful owner. Little did he know that Patrick had the same idea.

+++

**Six months later**

They’d just finished dinner and were relaxing on the sofa, wine in hand, at David’s apartment. They were sitting on opposite ends with their legs tangled when David reached behind him to pull something out of the side table. He passed a small, flat parcel to Patrick wrapped in the paper they used at the store.

“David, you shouldn’t have,” he teased. He understood the gravity of David giving him a gift for their sixth month anniversary, but he didn’t want to risk future gifts by drawing too much attention to it. 

“Oh, I know.” David tried to hide his smile, but it only resulted in his dimples deepening. 

Patrick tore off the paper and opened the box to reveal a blue leather luggage tag. He smiled down at it and then back up at his boyfriend. The force of the fondness in his eyes had David waving his hands around, trying to deflect it. 

“I just didn’t want you getting your luggage mixed up again and leaving me for some other _Sweater Man_.” David said the last two words faux-seductively. 

“Well, David, considering we now work together, and it’s unlikely I’ll be going on business trips without you, I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t happen again.” 

“ _Pretty sure_?” David was indignant. 

Patrick just smiled as he stood up, put his wine glass down, and pulled David to his feet, yanking him in the direction of the bedroom. "Yeah. Pretty sure."

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. I did pick up someone’s obnoxiously purple suitcase from a baggage carousel instead of my own identical purple suitcase. We did not, however, fall in love. Here’s my [tumblr](https://sweatersinthesummer.tumblr.com/).


End file.
